


Impeccable

by berlynn_wohl



Series: Oh, Doctor Watson! [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Established Relationship, M/M, Medical Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 08:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17300834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: “I’m so glad you’re here,” Holmes said. “I have a consultation with my physician today, and I want to make sure I am presentable for it. It is of the utmost importance that my hygiene is impeccable. I was hoping you could assist me.” (Watson obliges, as one would expect.)





	Impeccable

**Author's Note:**

> This fic follows on from "A Serious Condition" and "Staging A Drama." It might be helpful to read those first, in order to understand what's going on *gestures vaguely at all of this fic* ...here.

I rose in my usual fashion, which is to say at about ten or eleven and with some lying about beforehand, driven downstairs at last by hunger. Upon entering the unoccupied sitting room, I spied on the table the remains of a breakfast which Holmes had put some efforts towards consuming. Were his hat and coat not still hanging by the door, I might have suspected that he had fled from the table suddenly to follow an interesting case. Instead, I attributed his absence and the uneaten toast and eggs to a sudden excitement that had overcome him when he had some new breakthrough idea having to do with chemicals, or dust, or ink, or any of a thousand things which might send him to the little library in his room in the name of research.

Then I heard a splash.

And then, humming. Holmes was in the bath. In fact, now that I was looking in that direction, I could see the steam wafting past the door that he had left slightly open.

Ready as I had been to ring for Mrs. Hudson and have a fresh serving of breakfast sent up, I now decided that perhaps it would better for Holmes and I to have the flat completely to ourselves, with no one bustling in and out. However, there were few activities that I preferred to engage in while on an empty stomach, so I had a seat and munched on the remaining piece of toast and the cold bites of egg, resolving that a hearty luncheon would be in order so as to make up the difference. 

I am certain that Holmes had sensed my footfalls above him the moment I rolled out of bed, and had heard the squeak in the door when I had entered the sitting room, but he did not greet me just yet. I had only just finished my paltry breakfast and had a few sips of coffee when from the bathroom came the shout, “Watson!”

Never had I sat idle at the call of my name, and this was no time to begin. I stood, straightened my dressing gown, had a glance in the mirror just to be certain that my hair was not disheveled in a manner that could be construed as comical, and made my way to the bathroom.

Holmes was just shutting off the faucet, having added more hot water to the tub. His pale skin was flushed pink from the heat. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said. “I have a consultation with my physician today, and I want to make sure I am presentable for it. It is of the utmost importance that my hygiene is impeccable. I was hoping you could assist me.”

I did not dare smirk at him as he looked up at me, directly and expectantly, holding out a flannel and a bar of soap. I need not ask; I knew that I was the physician he was to see later that day, though Holmes had not made me aware of that until just this moment.

“I would be happy to assist you,” I said, and took the proffered items from his hands. “Lean forward, and we shall start with your back.”

Holmes wrapped his arms round his knees, presenting the planes of his lean back to me. I wetted the flannel and lathered it, then applied it to him, using firm, broad strokes, up to the nape of his neck and down to the surface of the water. My touch became more delicate and precise as I made my way upwards and scrubbed behind his ears.

I dipped the flannel in the water and squeezed it over his skin to rinse him, then instructed him to lean back, so that I could work on his front.

I was gentle again round his neck, then worked in sweeping strokes as I made my way further down. He surrendered himself utterly to my care, resting his head on the rim of the tub and looking content. I watched the droplets of water clinging to his skin, rolling down his body. His nipples were hard as pebbles in the cool air; I could feel them distinctly through the fabric as I rubbed the flannel over them.

My knees had just about had enough of me after only this much work, so for the next part, I sat on the edge of the tub, and demanded that he lift his legs, one by one, out of the water, so that I could wash each of them in turn. I was meticulous – as that is what he requested – working the flannel between each of his toes, rubbing the soles of his feet with my thumbs, just to make him sigh.

“Shall I wash your hair as well?” I asked, and he nodded, closing his eyes as though I were already in the process. He hummed happily all through the lathering, so I drew it out, my fingertips firm on his scalp as I worked the soap in. When it was time to rinse it out, I guided him down to dunk his head, though of course he needed no assistance.

He sat up and recovered his bearings, and then I suggested, “Perhaps you’d like to kneel forward, and put your arms on the edge of the tub, so that I can more easily wash the rest of you.”

He got himself into this position, arching his spine and presenting himself to me, so that I could slide the soapy flannel down the cleft of his behind, then dip down between his thighs, to lather his prick and bollocks. Though I stroked and massaged his most intimate areas with a truly unnecessary amount of thorough attention, I kept the flannel between myself and his bare skin all the while, as we had agreed that I was only washing him. There was certainly nothing lascivious going on here. (At this point, with him facing away from me and with no reflective surfaces nearby for him to watch me in, I dared to smirk at this notion.)

“Alright, out you get,” I said, “it will do no good for you to linger here and let the water turn you into a raisin.”

He lifted himself into a standing position, then waited for me to get the idea that I should hold out the bath sheet for him to take...and then to understand that rather than do that, I should in fact hold the bath sheet up for him to step into, to be enveloped in. I wrapped him up snugly, holding him close and patting him with just the loose corners for a moment, before rubbing him with vigour and drying him properly. I longed to play with him more freely, to kiss each part of him as I dried it, for example, but he had not asked for playfulness.

However, when I was finished, he said, “Are you confident that I am sufficiently clean? You should check me very thoroughly.”

“Well, let’s see,” I said, and leaned in close, just touching my nose to his neck, and inhaling deeply. “Hmm.” I lifted one of his arms, stroking the tuft of hair in his armpit and skimming my nose across that little hollow, but I detected only the barest hint of his natural musk; he mostly smelled of the soap. “Everything seems proper to me,” I said.

“Where else might I be offensive?” he asked.

I looked down, started to kneel, then decided instead to have him switch places with me, so that I was the one closer to the tub. I sat on the rim of it again, and now I needed only lean forward a bit to press my nose into his silky pubic hair and breathe in his scent. It was stronger here, splendidly so, but still clean and fresh. I pulled back and said, “Turn round.”

He did so, and rested his hands on the sink, while I parted his buttocks and gave a tentative lick to his clean, pink arsehole.

“Christ,” he whispered.

I laved him slowly and thoroughly, listening to his little oaths and blasphemies. It was all I could do not to apply myself vigorously, to act instead as though I were merely inspecting him – while performing this activity, of all things! At last I declared, “You’re the absolute picture of meticulous hygiene.”

“I’m grateful for your kind assistance.” Holmes straightened up and reached for the nightshirt hanging on the back of the door. “I shan’t keep you any longer. It’s nearly time for my appointment. No doubt my physician is waiting for me in his consulting room.”

I took his meaning and excused myself, heading up the stairs and back to my room. He wasn’t long in joining me, still in his nightshirt and nothing more.

“Doctor Watson, I’m so glad to be able to meet with you. I’ve determined recently that I am lacking in some key areas of medical knowledge, and was hoping that you might educate me on these finer points.”

This was a variation on his eccentric approach that I had not heard yet, so I was uncertain where it might lead. Nevertheless, I replied, “Absolutely, I am always happy to help. About which finer points are you curious?”

“There are some medical positions I am hoping to have demonstrated, and also I should like to gain knowledge of their uses.”

“I see. I don’t have a model here, or any diagrams...”

Holmes waved a dismissive hand. “There’s no need of that. You may demonstrate on me.” It was quite clear to me, then, which positions he had in mind.

“Very good.” I gestured to my bed. “Perhaps we can begin by having you lie down here, on your left side.”

Holmes laid himself down obediently, not teasing me with any provocative angles, not looking over his shoulder to take in my reaction. He lay still and waited for instruction.

“If you’ll permit me to guide you,” I suggested.

“Certainly.”

I held his right hip and leg in both my hands, bending the knee in front of him. “This is called the Sims position,” I explained. I held his left ankle and tugged, to get him to extend and straighten that leg. “You’ll be most comfortable if you hold this arm in front of you like so, and this arm here. Now, the Sims position is most commonly used for rectal examinations and treatments. It provides the doctor access but allows the recumbent patient to relax.”

“Oh, I see.” Holmes held the position, not turning to face me as he inquired, “Does this position really make it easier for both parties? Can you show me?”

I went for my medical bag, only to find that my bottle of mineral oil was nearly depleted. Since Holmes had resolved of late to undergo more frequent “examinations,” I was using my supply up at an astounding rate. I dug deeper into the bag, and came up with some petroleum jelly, which would do the job just as well. I pushed up the hem of his nightshirt to reveal his posterior, perfectly presented to me. After coating the first finger of my right hand with the petroleum jelly, I held his hip with my other hand, and inserted my finger.

“There, you see?” I said, when he was finished groaning. “That was very easy, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, doctor,” Holmes said. “Can you list again the treatments which the Sims position facilitates?”

“Oh, well aside from rectal examinations, it provides access if the perineum needs to be palpated. Also, enemas can be administered in this position.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, for future reference,” Holmes said. “Now, I’ve heard of another position, ‘knee-chest.’ Can you explain to me what that entails?”

“That one is very straightforward,” I said. “If I could have you turn so that you are on your hands and knees...?”

Holmes did so, though he began by rolling onto his back, so that I could see that he was becoming erect. He did not bother to adjust his nightshirt in the name of modesty as he turned and knelt, but left his pale rump quite exposed. I pressed my hand gently between his shoulder blades, explaining, “You must lower yourself so that your face and chest touch the bed. Elbows out to either side of you. Yes, that’s how it’s done.”

“Oh dear,” he breathed. “Doctor, this makes me feel _much_ more vulnerable.”

“Yes, that is why the Sims position is often employed instead. But ‘knee-chest’ facilitates many of the same procedures.”

“So you could perform a rectal examination just as easily with me like this?”

“Absolutely. Permit me to demonstrate.” Kneeling on the bed, I positioned myself directly behind him, and with my still-slick finger, slid into him once more. This time, I indulged myself in a good feel of him, stroking his prostate and massaging his inner walls. Groaning, Holmes spread his legs, and I realised that I now had even easier access to his bollocks, which I handled gently with my free hand.

“Please,” he said, “show me some other positions.”

There was only one other which I thought might hold a comparable level of interest for him. I withdrew carefully, moving off the bed just long enough to have him turn over and lay supine. “For this position, there are two varieties. Arms at your sides, please.” I grasped each of his ankles in turn and manipulated them so that he would bend his legs at the knee, and place his feet flat on the bed. I knelt between his legs. His nightshirt was still rucked about his waist, and all his private charms were exposed to me. “This is the dorsal recumbent position,” I explained. “The other variant is the lithotomy position, which typically includes stirrups. Those we do not have at present. But if we place your feet here, like so...” I lifted his legs to rest his ankles on my shoulders.

Our entire arrangement could not have been more blatantly debauched, and yet Holmes remained stone-faced. “What sort of patient is this position for?” he asked, and it seemed a genuine question, not a playful tease.

“Oh, well, ladies are placed in this position for childbirth.”

Holmes blinked. “Are they?”

“Yes. It, ah, is the most convenient position for the doctor delivering the child.”

Holmes slid his ankles off my shoulders and dropped his legs to either side of me, then propped himself up on his elbows. “Watson, that doesn’t make any sense at all! My knowledge of anatomy may be unsystematic, as you say, but even I know that flat on one’s back with one’s legs in the air must be the worst possible position in which to deliver a baby! Why, mother and child would both have to fight gravity the whole way!” All the deliberate care in his speech had vanished, and he seemed genuinely annoyed by this newly-acquired information. “An upwards struggle just to be born. You would not lay a mare or a cow on the ground to deliver its offspring; why would you subject a woman to such treatment?”

I was utterly at a loss as to how to respond, at least in this specific setting. I was not expecting to have such a stern dialogue with a half-naked, half-erect Holmes, although in all honesty I suppose I should not have been shocked, that even in the bedroom he might stop everything in order to get upset over something he deemed illogical.

I ventured forth by replying, “Do you have a suggestion for a better position, perhaps?”

“I do, as a matter of fact.” Holmes sat up properly, placing his hand on my chest and pushing me backwards to give himself more room to move. Then he leapt on top of me, straddling my middle. “Now you see, when kneeling like so, the mother can easily push, and gravity does the rest.”

“I cannot imagine you mean for the obstetrician to be here, though,” I sputtered, indicating myself. “It would be both most indecent, not to mention impractical!”

“You are correct about that,” Holmes conceded. He lifted himself off of me, but remained kneeling, by my side now. After a moment’s thought, he said, “I believe that the ideal position for a doctor to be in, were his patient to be where I am...” He grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me upright. With some guidance from his hands, I assumed a position similar to his, kneeling, but directly behind him. “How is this?” he asked.

I looked down at the space between our bodies. “Hmm, yes, I suppose this would be advantageous. Here, the doctor and the patient are on the same level, and the doctor has complete access.” To demonstrate, I manoeuvered my hand between us, slipped it under his nightshirt, and had a feel of the warm, soft skin of his inner thighs, up and across his sack, and into his cleft, then forward, to grasp his cockstand.

“Ooh,” he breathed. “Yes, you can touch everything.” I entertained him with these caresses for a minute or two, listening to his happy sighs, until he said, “Doctor Watson, I think it’s time for another one of your therapeutic treatments.”

I untied the sash of my dressing gown and removed it with all haste, then rucked up my nightshirt to get at my prick. Fumbling for the tin of petroleum jelly, I applied a hasty smear of it to myself, then guided myself to the charming little treasure that I had spent the morning cleaning, tasting, and massaging. By now he knew just how to relax himself to admit me, and before I could push up into him, he wriggled like an eel as he sat eagerly on my prick.

I soon found his nightshirt and mine around our waists to be a nuisance, blocking my view if nothing else – I did so enjoy seeing myself all the way to the root in him. When I tugged his nightshirt up, just to get it out of the way, Holmes lifted his arms, to facilitate my taking it off entirely. I happily did this, then grasped my own nightshirt and yanked it up and away. For all that I had performed these “therapeutic treatments” before, this was a first: we were both entirely unclothed while in the act of love, nothing to separate us. It was something so simple, and yet I had wondered during all our previous amorous episodes if it ever might come to pass.

Even before our garments had fallen to the floor, Holmes was riding me at a gallop, his powerful thighs flexing, his body heaving in my lap. I stayed still and watched; though the sight of Holmes driving himself wild on my prick was not new to me, it had not lost its novelty. He grunted with the effort, but seemed perfectly content to do all the work, so I reached around his hip and concentrated on frigging him.

He grunted and whinged and put on a splendid show for me, arching and twisting, seeking every gratifying angle for himself. By the time he found one that could not be improved upon, he was leaning back with his full weight against me, his thighs quivering with the effort. His head rested on my shoulder, and his cheek brushed my own. If we were to strain to turn our heads just a little more, I might have touched my lips to his. Instead, only the corners of our mouths came into contact, open and panting, and I could feel his hot breath gusting across my skin. I cared not that his mouth was thin and severe; I longed to kiss it, but I feared to do it, as he had not asked it of me.

Now that he was leaning back onto me, he had lost his leverage, and the burden fell to me to push and thrust. I put everything I had into it, and he responded beautifully. “Hold me tightly while I spend,” he gasped, “I beg you.” I wrapped my free arm around him, clutching him with all my might. “Oh, more tightly still!” He gripped my other wrist, took my hand from his prick, and insisted I hold him around the middle with that arm as well. He saw to himself easily enough, while I held him so close I feared I might steal the breath from him entirely. “Forgive me whilst I make a mess of your sheets,” he said as his back arched.

I so loved feeling his convulsions of ecstasy, knowing they were involuntary and pleasure-induced. To make my otherwise impeccably-controlled _inamorato_ lose control in this way fed my ego like nothing else.

His spending shot out and indeed bedewed the sheets in front of him, but I cared not. “Think nothing of it,” I said. “I’m about to make a mess of my own, inside you.”

“Please do it at once,” he cried. And I obliged him. I went still save for the twitching of my hips and let off my spunk. He sensed it, how could he not, and moaned to feel its warmth. As I relaxed and loosed my grip, he said softly, “ _Oh_.” Coming back to ourselves, he was I think a bit embarrassed at how he had carried on in my lap. The only thing I could think of to put him at ease was to resume my grip on him and pull him with me down onto the mattress, and stroke his body and limbs, and softly reassure him that he had been an excellent student of medical knowledge.

He calmed in my arms as I nuzzled the back of his neck. I muttered against his warm, damp skin, “Holmes, my brilliant student, my perfect patient. In light of our heroic exertions, I believe we should treat ourselves to a hearty luncheon. What do you say?”

**Author's Note:**

> berlynn-wohl on Tumblr and Pillowfort for more of this sort of nonsense, plus information about my stories that are not available on AO3. 
> 
> I also used to be something of a BBC!Johnlock fic writer, and you can check those out on this site. :)


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